


Cold Comfort

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Puritanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 17:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: Original Prompt: "In the scene where Jamie is the only believer, his little light appeared to be somewhere in either New York or Pennsylvania. For this prompt’s sake, let’s call it New York. You know what was up in the New England colonies during the years Jack lived? Puritans.You know what Puritanical belief is? The anti-thesis of fun. To call someone puritanical is to accuse them of being killjoysThe irony is delicious.Bonus: Sexually repressed Jack who gets SUPER CAGEY anytime sex is even mentionedBonus +1: The adults used to always punish him for having fun, cue rebellious streak"a) I don’t think New York actually counts as New England.b) The modern meaning of Puritanical evolved from contemporary use of the term as a pejorative.c) I forget what I was going to say here. Wait, I remember. The Puritans did ban holiday celebrations, though, so I’ll work with that.Jack has been a spirit for about two years, and he didn’t initially lose his memories.





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr 10/16/2013.

In his second year of his being as he is now, Jack finds himself drawn away from his home once again, just as he was the year before, in this darkest part of the winter. Drawn, as if by instinct, to less godly towns, towns with evergreen wreaths on the doors, with dancing and drinking in rooms so excessively lit they might as well be ablaze, with music played on instruments, and, sometimes, in houses where the residents speak a language he understands but knows he never learned, pine trees all bedecked with candles, paper flowers, and apples and oranges shining brightly as flames against the dull colors of winter.  
  
His first year, he tried not to think about the pull this strange mix of pagan and decadent revelry had on him, but more often than not this only led him to realizing, that, through no conscious choice of his own, he was smiling in at warm feasts that, for reasons he could not understand, always seemed to grow wilder and more ridiculous the longer he stayed to watch. The forfeits for the games grew cheekier, the stories told grew more outlandish, the children were allowed to stay up later and stuff themselves with more sweets.  
  
When the season was over, he had thought that perhaps the problem had simply been loneliness. After all, he had most often been drawn to people in groups.   
  
But, troublingly, as he followed the cool wind northwards as spring ripened (again, something he found he could not stop himself from doing), he realized that what had happened at Christmastime might not have been an isolated occurrence. In shadows that still held snow, he had lingered at a dance around a maypole, and there surely could be no excuse for that.  
  
And now here he is again in decadent towns as Christmas approaches. Why could they not just sing? Why could they not keep diaries, or write poetry? Jack feels comfortable when he smiles at these things, in the town where he used to live.  
  
He perches on a rooftop, letting the icy wind, which to him feels as pleasant as a cool glass of water after a hard day’s work, rush around him. More and more often, he imagines he can hear it speaking to him. He does not want to imagine this. The wind does not speak; the wind is not alive.  
  
But then again, perhaps the speaking wind should not trouble him as much as the fact that he is present to be troubled by it. He died, did he not? He remembers the cracking of the ice beneath his feet, the freezing water that forced the breath from his chest. After that, he shouldn’t have awakened at that same pond. He knew there were no such things as ghosts. And yet—here, he seemed to be one.  
  
With both Heaven and Hell stubbornly refusing to clarify things for him, he begins to consider that muddling through the long nights with a little violin music might not be so bad, after all.  
  
If that is where comfort is to be found for him now, he will let it pull at his heart. If he must forget much of what he once was to do that, then forget he shall.  
  
With the wind and the wide world around him, he does not think it will be so hard.


End file.
